Where Am I?

That’s the thing about this city, everything is perfect, it’s so fabulous that foreigners fill the streets, the restaurants and the shops. I know it sounds ungrateful and selfish, but there are times when I think we’d just like to have the place to ourselves. My city is for my people. Wherever I go there are strangers in the way, prattling on in languages I don’t understand. What’s really irritating is that a lot of them expect me, or us, to be fluent in whatever it is they’re speaking.

Time for a confession. I’m not from here either, but I’ve been here so long that I feel that I am one of them and believe it or not, I’ve begun to forget my native language. I’ve soaked the place up like osmosis, so it’s in every part of my being. I learned the language from the locals, the shopkeepers, the street merchants and my partner. Yes, I’m married to a local. So, I sound like them now, I dress like them, I identify with them. And like many of them, I am a shopkeeper.

Oh, let me tell you about my shop. It’s so small that I can only have one client visit me at a time, so if you bring a friend, rain or shine, one of you has to stand out on the street. I am a violin maker and some very talented violinists play my instruments. And to brag just a little, my shop is now a national treasure. I still can’t believe it. A rock Super Star has a violin I made and one was played by a virtuoso violinist Super Star at an American Presidential Inauguration. I am very proud.

I came to this country many years ago to learn my trade and when I was ready, I moved here and bought this little corner store. It is so tiny that nobody wanted it and the owner was desperate to sell so I could manage it with what I had saved.

I don’t use power tools; I hate the noise. I feel more in tune with the wood and the birth of the instrument when I can feel it taking shape in my hands. I have a shelf high up on the back wall where I keep my special pieces of maple. The are rough cut in wedges and paired together so that the grain opens like the wings of a butterfly.

I have a narrow work bench along the east side wall that is just wide enough for me to work on something as large as a cello, and that leaves about a metre for me to move around in. There is a narrow alcove across from the workbench where I installed a table-top for my desk and some shelves above for my books and records and that’s it, that’s all I need.

My clients have to know where I am because I can’t afford to advertise, but the location couldn’t be better. It’s just around the corner from one of the most famous churches in the country and one of the greatest art galleries in the world and the street market is right outside my door. So, if someone needs an instrument of the finest quality, they will be able to find me. Virtuoso Violins, that’s the name of my shop and it is written in small gold letters on the corner window.

There is so much history here, almost every street is famous for one thing or another and their stories are endless. The river that runs through the city is wide, shallow and can be a treacherous torrent when the winter snows melt in early spring. But for the most part, it’s quiet, especially in the summer time. Athletic types head out on the calm surface in narrow boats and row up and down, passing under the many bridges. They're often admired by the impromptu audience in the cafés along the river’s shore as they enjoy their cappuccino and cakes.

This ancient city is the perfect place for friendships, people are settled and comfortably accustomed to its pace and style of living. Little changes here beyond birth and death and that’s the way we like it. In the off season when the tourists have gone home, I love to wander the streets peeking in to small courtyards where marvellous sculptures take the place of pride, at once guarded by gates and fences of iron but visible, so they can be shared with the likes of me. There is always a wine merchant, a café or wine bar nearby where I can stop in for a friendly visit, and on special nights my partner and I meet with friends, artists, writers and musicians to dine out at a fine restaurant.

It’s a simple life, uncomplicated by the urgency and excesses of modern cities. It’s a city where one can work quietly with your hands and build something beautiful that has an intrinsic value that will last long after you’re gone. That is the nature of my city, my home, and has been for hundreds of years. Everything you see around you bears witness to this, thanks to the patronage of the wealthiest people of that time. They commissioned the churches, the fountains, the sculptures and paintings.

It was their money that allowed the architects, designers and craftsmen to build these magnificent structures, their marriages that brought more wealth here and added new foods and spices and ideas. This was the centre of the new dawning of knowledge, the capital of art and design, creativity of all kinds, food music and literature. That is why it has lasted and why people from all over the world come here, as I did, to learn and appreciate what was done here.

I feel rather sheepish after talking with you about where I live. I mean, after everything I’ve just said about this place, my city, I shouldn’t be so egoistic to think I could keep it exclusive to its citizens. It is only natural that a place that has radiated so much renewed energy to the world should attract world’s the interest. It’s only natural that this virtual Mecca for western civilization’s arts should be the beacon for dreamers. For those searching for the heart of a society where together the wealthy, the intellectuals, the artists and the poor and ordinary were responsible for the rebirth of such enormous creativity.

My name is unimportant, but I wonder if you know the name of the city where I live?